


Like Raindrops, Teardrops Fall

by Somedrunkpirate



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, But they learn, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Introspection, M/M, Not enough communication, Ransom POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 11:29:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11356581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedrunkpirate/pseuds/Somedrunkpirate
Summary: Ransom panics sometimes. Holster cries sometimes.They help each other.They manage.(Are the lights off?)





	Like Raindrops, Teardrops Fall

**Author's Note:**

> First time writing in this fandom and with this series! Hope y'all like it :D

A friendship is an understanding between two people.

Friends understand each other. They know what they need from each other. It’s a series of unspoken expectations and reactions, like a chemical equation: perfectly balanced. It’s a synergy: a natural but rare occurrence. Ransom treasures his friendship with Holster to such an extent that he tries to find those invisible logistics. He needs to know the rules so he knows how not to accidentally ruin them, upset the balance, destroy the friendship.

He cannot lose this, lose them.

Finding rules through observation is easier said than done, because the rules are flexible and change with the years. The rules of today are worlds different from the rules of a year ago, and Ransom tries to keep up. There are new rules he doesn’t know how to feel about, there are old ones he reinforces. Some, Ransom doesn’t know if they are a rule or a habit.

Maybe there are ones that should be broken.

There are certain things they don't talk about.

Ransom tiptoes around the puddles of that which must not be mentioned, performing balancing acts more fitting for a ice skating routine than the hockey rink.

They leave many things in those pools of denial. Like how kisses rain down on Ransom's face after a bad fall, how emotions spill over sometimes and eyes convey their shared secrets without speaking words, or how they clutch at each other desperately like drowning men when the lights are off.

Nothing that happens after the click of the switch counts in the honest daylight.

It's how they manage it.

It's how Ransom manages it.

\--

Ransom learned very young that breathing is a privilege. People don’t think about the logistics of taking a breath of air. They don’t think about the way the muscles contract and pull, the way the lungs expand, the way the oxygen is extracted into the bloodstream. It’s automatic, a normality, something you don’t have to worry about.

Ransom worries about it, with good reason.

The first time Ransom realised air is a luxury was when he was six and went swimming in the sea.

He still remembers the force of the wave pushing him down, the ache of his lungs desperately trying to grasp the tiniest of breaths before he was pulled beneath the surface again. His mother pulled him out choking and coughing and only just in time. He remembers the sensation of being able to breathe again, the immense relief followed by the debilitating fear; what if that happens again. What if the next breath just doesn’t come?

Springtime is a feast for many, but for Ransom it is a nightmare of swollen throats and stuffy noses. Flowers are overrated; deceptively beautiful pests that make it difficult to breathe. Combine tests and allergy season and you have yourself a recipe for disaster.

A panic attack landed him in the hospital at twelve. His friends weren’t allowed to bring him flowers. Ransom was relieved. He learned then, that not only external influences could disrupt his lungs, but his own mind could betray him too.

\---

A warm hand on his back. His voice the sole source of light in the dancing dark.

“Breathe for me please.” _1 2 3 4_

“Hold.” _1 2 3 4 5 6 7_

“And release.” _1 2 3 4 5 6 8_

“Good, you’re doing great. Again.”

\---

Holster helped him for the first time just before a game in their first year.

There had been a test that day, and Ransom had been riding the receding wave of adrenaline until he lost his balance and drowned in it while trying to tie his skates. His hands were shaking too much, his vision was blurry and the tense sound of skaters preparing for battle gave away to the thudding of his heart. His breathing quickened, slumped over his own knees desperately gasping for air, but quietly; the other guys couldn’t know about his failure, about his inability to keep his anxiety in check.

Holster noticed, because Holster noticed everything.

Holster asked the guys to clear out. He tied Ransom’s skates and asked, “How can I help? Please, show me how I can help you.”

Ransom sucked in another gasp of air. He reached over, twisting his hand in Holster’s jersey. “Breathing. Tell me to breathe.”

Holster did.

Ransom got a hold of himself.

They won the game.

The next day, Holster quizzed him. He wanted to know everything. He wanted to know what triggered it, about the breathing exercises. What to do, what not to do. He wanted a code, a way to signal him before Ransom was already in the middle of it.

Holster helped.

It became the one rule Ransom is certain exists. Whatever happens, whatever trouble Ransom is in, Holster will help him. He’s never failed to at least try.

\---

Ransom doesn’t cry.

It is an empty pride to have. But when you lose control at least once a month, it becomes something more. Let panic choke you and suddenly small prides are worth gold, subjectively.

He can calm himself down, he can get himself out of the worst attacks. And he does not cry.

Holster is the opposite. Bittle likes to say that Holster is a ‘big boy with big emotions,’ and Ransom always smiles softly at that. Because it’s true, it’s so true that it should be hanging on a wall somewhere. In big flowing letters on the Haus: ‘Holster is an emotional mess but we love him anyway’. Maybe he should ask Lardo; she’d make a cool artwork out of it.

Holster cries about the silliest things. Present him with a coffee and a piece of cake when he’s exhausted enough and you have a bawling bro on your hands. They joke that Holster stole all emotion from Ransom. Ransom is the ice, and Holster is the rain, almost always pouring for whatever reason.

Movies are always a hit. Certainly ones where there is a dog. The dog doesn’t even have to die for it to be tear worthy.

“It’s just _there_ , Rans,” Holster says with tears in his eyes. “It’s just _there,_ being a dog and he’s so _happy about it.”_

Ransom smiles and throws an arm over him. “I know, bro. I know.”

Holster just nods and watches the movie with this intense focus that Ransom can’t help but think is adorable. He’d given up repressing thoughts like that a long time ago. Denial doesn’t stop them from coming.

“When we’ve graduated, I’ll get you a dog,” Ransom muses. “A labrador puppy, or a dalmatian, like that one movie with hundreds of them.”

Holster looks up with wide eyes. “Bro, I would cry.”

Ransom throws his head back and laughs. “Of course you would. But if you call it Spot, I’ll steal it back.”

Holster grins, bright and happy and wet and sticky. “Noted, bro. Noted.”

Ransom has to look away. He can’t kiss him yet. The lights are still on.

\---

Ransom has not come out yet, and he’s not planning too. It’s not like he expects his family to react badly - badly as in, disown him - but the thought of saying the words stresses him out, and Ransom is a master in avoiding things like that.

Holster though. Holster realised he was bisexual in their second year and kept it quiet. With the exception of Ransom, of course; they are best friends and can tell each other things like that. (It wasn’t a big surprise. He’d known Holster liked girls, and liked Ransom enough to do things with him. So. It made sense, rationally.)

Holster has a good relationship with his sister, a better one with his mother. Ransom doesn’t know much about his father, other than that he exists.

Holster wants to come out, Ransom knows, Holster wants to live his life as he is and not as how people expect him to be.

(Sometimes, Ransom is jealous of that, of that certainty. Ransom is what other people expect him to be because he has no clue who he is and he has to be _something._ )

After Spring Break, Holster comes back different. Ransom sees his smile – it’s too wide, too perfect, _not right_ – as Holster arrives back at the Haus and his stomach drops. Holster’s sister is still behind him, she gives him a quick hug and waves at Ransom. Holster’s mother waiting in the driver's seat.

Holster’s father is nowhere to be seen.

Holster waves his family goodbye and closes the door. He collapses against it the moment it clicks shut.

“Holtzy,” Ransom breathes, by his side before he knows what he’s doing. “Holster, come here.”

Holster turns and his face is blank and tight. Ransom does the only thing he can think of and wraps his arms around him. Holster tenses, but then he suddenly heaves a deep breath before his composure crumbles and sobs against Ransom’s shoulder.

He told them and it didn’t go well. He told his father and he refused to come.

“I’m so sorry Holtzy,” Ransom murmurs. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Holster just tightens his hold on Ransom. His breaths are coming out rapidly and he is tense all over.

“Take a deep breath, Holtzy. I don’t want you to hyperventilate, yeah?” Ransom says softly, pulling back a little to see his face. “Come on, breathe just like you do with me. Take a deep breath.”

Holster’s face is puffy and red and his eyes are still closed, but he obeys.

“Good, good. Hold for a little and then breathe out,” Ransom says, rubbing Holster’s back in desperate comfort. Holster has done it so many times for him, but he’d never known how fucking terrifying it is from this side. He wants Holster to feel better, to calm down, but for that, he needs to be calm himself. So he pushes his terror aside and works Holster through a few more breaths.

Holster coughs a little, but he’s stopped trembling and says, “Breathing sucks.”

Ransom represses a sigh of relief and laughs softly, his hands still rubbing Holster’s back. “Yeah, yeah it does. Do you want to go upstairs?”

Holster is silent for a second, and Ransom worries he has said the wrong thing, despite having no idea what that could be. He holds eye-contact until Holster nods, and they walk the stairs together, Holster’s bag left carelessly on the ground. Ransom makes a mental note to pick it up later.

When they’re back in their room, Ransom smiles. He loved being home for a little while, but this room is his true home. He’s missed it, he’s missed them.

There is a pattern to everything, so when Holster turns around and pushes Ransom against the wall Ransom isn’t surprised. This is how they help each other. Holster feels like shit and Ransom can make him feel better. Holster has done it so many times for him, and Ransom wants to do it too. He wants to make Holster feel good, feel something outside the fucked up bullshit that is family life.

Ransom kisses back desperately, and moans into the kiss. Because for all that he’s helping, he’s selfish too. It’s been a while since they’d done this, with Holster dating a chick from the library. But they’d broken up before the Spring Break and Holster wants him again and Ransom is going to enjoy it however long it lasts, this time.

He pushes Holster to the bed and kisses him into it. He pulls back to see Holster spread out and lovely and blurts, “Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

Then he realises the lights are still on. He can’t say shit like that when the lights are still on. There are rules. But before he can leave, Holster pulls him down again, mouthing on his lower lip and humming contently, and Ransom loses himself into it, all his thoughts absolved in the heat of that mouth against him.

Holster twists them around and grinds his hips over Ransom’s, and Ransom arches into it. He watches Holster smile down at him before doing it again.

“You fucking tease,” Ransom breathes, leaning up and biting Holster’s earlobe, he feels Holster shiver against him.

“I can do something about that,” Holster hums, and he starts to tug Ransom’s sweater over his head.

Ransom freezes.

Holster stops immediately and pulls a concerned frown in question.

Ransom’s throat is dry. “No, just- I. The lights aren’t off.”

Holsters eyes widen and he drops his hands as if burned. His face goes blank again and - no, that wasn’t what Ransom wanted. Fuck.

“I just. Normally, we–” Ransom tries, tentatively putting a hand on Holster’s face. He curses his inability to put words together when it matters.

Holster watches him quietly, still on top of him, and finally lays his hand over Ransom’s, but doesn’t push it away. Just, holds it there.

“Ransom, do you want the lights to be off?” Holster asks carefully, softly.

Earnest eyes, an honest, open face, and something deep inside Ransom breaks. He wants to look away; it’s too much. But he can’t.

His voice doesn’t work around the lump of panic in his throat but he manages to shake his head. Because he doesn’t want the lights to be off. He’d never really wanted that. That’s just how it is.

But Holster doesn’t push himself off of him, and he doesn’t look disappointed or disgusted or angry. Holster smiles. He smiles brightly down at Ransom.

“Good, good,” Holster murmurs. “Because I don’t want them to be off either, okay? I want to see you. I want you.”

He leans down and kisses Ransom, achingly soft and hesitant. “I’ve always wanted you.”

Ransom shivers at the words and kisses Holster back to distract himself from the emotional overload. Somewhere in his mind there is a hysteric thought that if anything is worthy crying over, it’s this. But the majority of him is still not convinced this isn’t all a hallucination, and the kissing helps with disproving that hypothesis.

This time, Ransom kisses every inch of Holster’s skin in bright light, able to see every expression and everything is his.

This time, Holster says words of adoration and they feel real and honest, bathed in true light.

This time, Ransom murmurs them back and doesn’t worry about revealing himself, of saying too much, of scaring Holster away because he’s in love with him and that wasn’t what Holster signed up for.

But maybe he did, maybe he wants all of it.

So when they are lying together – cuddled up and exhausted, smiling happily at each other, finally not hidden in the dark – Ransom murmurs, “I love you.”

And Holster cries. Because of course he does.

But he says it back too, and that’s what matters in the end.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! New people!
> 
> Loved writing these two, I hope you liked reading my take on them :) 
> 
> Thank you Autumn and Nonnie for beta'ing this lil thing for me!


End file.
